Sympathy for the Devil
by safe.from.harm
Summary: Reid and Morgan are assigned a case in New York City while the rest of the team is away; it seems more or less cut-and-dry, but when one of the victims survives, things get a hell of a lot more complicated than either agent figured. Casefic; Reid/OMC.
1. Chapter 1

"Shit." Derek Morgan sat heavily in one of the stiff, uncomfortable chairs in one of the many New York Police Department conference rooms.

"What?" Spencer Reid looked exhausted; until the moment Morgan walked into the room, and not a second before, his head had been on his folded arms on the table. He hadn't been sleeping, he maintained, just thinking; this was a difficult case, and he, Morgan and Garcia were the only ones working it—and Garcia's time was split between this and the Chicago case that Hotch, Rossi and the girls were working.

It didn't help that this case was particularly nasty, in Reid's opinion: someone in New York City—in East New York, specifically—was raping, killing and mutilating young women. He was targeting ethnic women, specifically Haitians and Jamaicans, immigrants so new that they either spoke very broken English or no English at all, instead still speaking in their native Haitian Creole or Jamaican Patois. Two of the seven victims were thought to be illegal immigrants.

_001. Grace Williams—twenty-one—nursing student (St. Joseph, night classes), maid (Continental Hotel, 1620 Jefferson Ave.; Anthony DioPaulo, manager)—Jamaican, immigrated around June 08—Unity Plaza, Site 4A, ENY_

Reid's eyes moved over the board; there weren't any pictures up yet, just notes that he'd written down earlier in his small, rushed script.

_002. Jacinta Gayle—nineteen—unemployed—Haitian, immigrated around May 09 (no record, presumed illegal)—Linden House, Site 3, ENY_

_003. Dominique Palmer—twenty-three—cashier at Quik Stop (14__th__ and Douglas; Ophelia Rex, manager)—Jamaican, immigrated around March 07—9201 W. Justice Street, Apt. 17, Bronx_

_004. Vontriece Allen—twenty—maid (6300 Thompson Drive, Brooklyn; Bethany and Michael Daniels, employers)—Haitian, immigrated around Dec. 09 (no record, presumed illegal)—Cyprus Hill Houses, Site 9B, ENY_

"Christ, Reid," Morgan said, shaking his head; he had started staring at the notes on the board, too.

"What?"

"How long did it take you to write all of that?"

"Not that long. It's better than writing it on paper that I'd lose." Reid stood, pacing in front of the board. "Alright, so... seven victims. All low-income, all either Jamaican or Haitian, all recent immigrants, all from around the same area, except for Dominique Palmer and Tiana Dixon, both of whom lived in the Bronx. They were also the only two that didn't live in 'the projects'." He sketched quotes in the air around his last two words and continued. "That would be another similarity between the victims, but only Jacinta Gayle and Keisha Powell lived in the same complex, and that particular complex—Linden House—has nineteen buildings, all of which are either eight or fourteen stories; plus, those murders weren't consecutive.

"Grace Williams had two children, Dominique Morgan was married and had one child, Ella Higgins had two children."

"Alright, so we have those seven girls: Grace, Jacinta, Dominique, Vontriece, Tiana, Keisha and Ella," Morgan said, leaning back and propping his feet up on his desk. "They—"

The door opened behind them and both Reid and Morgan turned to look: Officer Raymonde Prince of the NYPD was rolling in a wheeled file cabinet full of pictures, reports and signed statements.

"Here are the seven girls you've got so far," he said, easing the cabinet down and pulling out the top drawer. "Files one, two and three—Williams, Gayle and Palmer—are in drawer one. Files four, five and six are in drawer two. Files seven and eight are in drawer three."

Reid frowned. "There's not an eight yet."

"Yeah, there is," Prince said, and sighed. "Meet Corrine Gray."

Morgan swore and said, "When did she die?"

"That's the good news. She hasn't yet—somebody called the police, and he bunked."

"How bad is her condition?" Reid said, unable to keep the eagerness from his voice. "Is it possible for her to...?"

"She's not bad, all things considering—but there are a few things the Captain wants to discuss with you. But that's at the hospital. He wants us there in ten."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Well, here it is—my second chapter. This one came really easily; I love writing Reid-dialogue, especially his little rant in the beginning. Unfortunately, the handful of you that are following don't get to meet Corrine just yet, but I fully plan on introducing her in the next chapter! I'm setting my deadline for chapter three for Sunday the fourth.

"What did you need to talk to us about?" Morgan was obviously much more comfortable talking to Captain Ryan Richards of the NYPD than Reid.

"Two things are bothering us about this particular victim," Richards began unceremoniously, flipping on his left turn signal and cutting off a taxi; apparently the cabbie saw the unlit cherries on top of the police car, because he was sensible enough to not flip him off. "One—he didn't go in for the rape this time. No signs of any sexual assault at all, and the girl says nothing happened."

"So he's breaking the profile," Reid said, without really thinking about the two men listening. "He knows that this is drawing federal attention."

"Yeah," Richards said. "And two—to add onto what you said—he went for mutilation first. In every other victim, it was the same MO: rape, kill, mutilate. He's switching it around."

"That doesn't make sense," Reid said quietly, and even over the dull roar of traffic around them and the rain beating down on the top of the police car, he knew they were listening intently. "Theoretically, he's skipping the rape because that isnt' the thrill for him—the kill is. If the act of rape was the thrill, he could just wear a mask or use the darkness to his advantage—61.32 percent of rapists are never caught, so there's a good chance he would just get away." He paused. "And the mutilation is done in disrespect—if that was the goal of the attacks, he wouldn't kill them first. He's obviously targeting this particular race—Haitian and Jamaican—of women for a reason, and he's obviously familiar with their culture; they both pay great respect to their dead, almost to the point of Chinese-esque ancestor worship. To desecrate the body like this unsub has is a sign of deep disrespect, no only to the woman but to the entire race in general, so we're looking at someone that has a personal grudge against Haitians and Jamaicans. But to switch his MO around like that... it's almost like another unsub. Completely different motive—the thrill of torture, not the desecration of mutilating the body, looks like his goal now."

"It doesn't make sense," Morgan said after a moment of quiet; he glanced back—Reid was slightly flushed and staring out of the rain-streaked window, holding himself very still, as he always did when he was embarrassed by something. Morgan knew that it embarrassed him to go off on a spiel like that, but sometimes Reid just couldn't stop that brain of his, and usually when that happened, his mouth started going, too.

"You make a lot of sense, kid," Richards said. Morgan knew without looking that Reid's lips had tightened for a moment; he hated anyone but Hotch, and sometimes Morgan, calling him 'kid'.

Richards flipped on his right turn signal and pulled into the reserved parking on the side of the Mercy Medical Clinic, where he parked next to the building. "I don't think we've been introduced," he said, getting out and opening the door of the hospital hall for the two FBI agents. Once they were inside and out of the rain, he stuck out his hand to Reid. "Captain Ryan Richards."

"Spencer Reid," Reid said, and shook his hand briefly.

"Dr. Spencer Reid," Morgan said, grinning, and knew that Reid was trying to be professional in front of Richards because he just smiled tightly.

"Doctor, huh? You must be a lot older than you look." Richards started walking, motioning for the other two to follow him.

"Twenty-seven, actually," Reid said, his tone not belying the fact that he answered this question on nearly every case he went on.  
"Mathematics, engineering and physics," Morgan added, and Reid shot him what Rossi called his 'shut-the-fuck-up' look, but corrected him and said, "Chemistry, not physics. Still working on that one."

"Ah," Richards said, "a prodigy, then."

"Yes."

"Well, Doctor, let's see what sense you can make out of Corrine Grey."

Something beeped in Reid's pocket and he withdrew his latest obsession: an iPhone

"I can't believe you bought one of those fucking things," Morgan said, shaking his head; he and Prentiss regularly referred to Reid as a technology slut, though Reid insisted the term wasn't really deserved.

"Reid," he said, his voice as clipped and curt as it always was when he was on the phone. He got the feeling he'd hurt Garcia's feelings a few times—she was too used to having her calls answered with 'hey, sweet-cheeks'.

"How's the case?" Hotch, though Reid had already known that; he had committed everyone's numbers to memory when he had joined the team—he was wary of using a contact list.

"Getting there." He began to follow Morgan, realizing that he'd stopped in the middle of the hallway. "How's Chicago?"

"Getting there." And, in an undertone, Hotch added, "About to kill Rossi. How're the locals treating you?"

Reid grinned. "Alright. Competent—just thanking God we're not with Andy fucking Griffith again."

Hotch didn't laugh, because Hotch never laughed, but there was something different in his voice when he said, "Be as courteous as you always are, but not unduly friendly. And watch your back. Don't make friends, especially with the department."

"I know." Reid could have told himself that; the NYPD had a long and colorful history of corruption, and it wasn't unheard of for a CIA or FBI agent to have been betrayed by a cop with his own interests in mind.

"Be careful, kid." Hotch let the words linger, then added, "And tell Morgan I said so, too."

"Alright." A click, and the dial tone sounded in his ear.

"Hotch?" Morgan asked, and Reid nodded, putting his phone on vibrate and putting it back in his pocket.

"Told us to be careful." He didn't add that they'd been informed not to make friends—Morgan should've known that.

"Yeah, yeah, standard Hotch-mom bullshit," Morgan said. "Come on, we need to talk to this girl, talk to her doctors, find whoever called the cops, and head back to the hotel and get some sleep."

Richards flashed his badge and credentials at the young woman behind a sheet of bulletproof glass, who asked who he was here for, and who the two gentlemen with him were. Reid slid his badge and credentials under the glass and, after a moment of hesitation, Morgan did the same. "FBI," the woman said, cocking an eyebrow, and added, "I'll guess Corrine Grey?"

"You guess correctly," Richards said. "Room number?"

"412C," the woman said after a moment of perusing a long list in front of her.

"Do you happen to know whether or not she's awake?" Richards asked.

"I don't, but I do know that the doctors upgraded her condition to stable earlier today, so she should be fine to talk."

"Thank you," Morgan said, and they followed Richards to the elevators. Thirty seconds later, they were in hall 4-1, making their way towards room two and section C. A man in white scrubs was standing outside the curtain that hid Corrine Grey.

"Dr. Butler," he said, nodding to them. "Captain Richards and the two FBI agents sent to help, I presume?"

"Yes."

"I was told to brief you on Ms. Grey's progress," Butler said. "Currently, her condition is stable; her injuries were not life-threatening, but they were numerous and will require further care."

"Where were the injuries sustained?" Reid asked, obviously thinking, making no effort to be personal with Dr. Butler; his mind had already started to work. "We need to make sure that they're absolutely consistent with the other victims'—several things about this particular attack make us question whether or not this unsub is changing his pattern, or if it's even the same man at all."

"Two stab wounds to the abdomen—specifically the lower stomach, a long and more shallow wound to her ribs, and the beginning of wounds on either side of her face and neck."

"Any signs of sexual trauma?" Morgan cut in.

"None."

"Thank you, Dr. Butler," Morgan said. "Dr. Reid and I were just a little concerned... but these wounds certainly seem to be consistent."

"I will add, gentlemen, that he used a serrated knife," Butler said quietly. "Even if this isn't the Ripper... well, it's certainly a frighteningly accurate copycat."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Well, here's number three. This one was a little harder, for some reason, but the next couple of chapters are going to be fun to write! Remember to review, kids, feedback is awesome to get.

Corrine Grey was awake when Dr. Butler parted the curtains around her bed.

The first thing that Reid noticed about the young woman was the color of her skin: he had always thought that Morgan was dark-skinned, but this girl made him look practically white. It wasn't too startling, though, considering her native country; all of the other victims had looked like her. The second was, of course, the stark white bandages around her neck and across her face; he knew what those wounds would look like underneath, even if the unsub hadn't managed to finish the job.

"Ms. Grey, I'm Agent Morgan with the FBI," Morgan began, "and this is Agent Reid. We need to ask you some questions."

"Uhm, Agent?" Richards said. "One problem."

"Yes?" Morgan was obviously slightly annoyed with the interruption, but remained professional as ever.

"She only speaks Creole, and some French—we don't know how fluent she is yet."

Reid grinned. "Not a problem."

"How is that not a problem?" Richards asked incredulously, but Morgan just shook his head. "Surprise, Reid speaks French."

"Eidetic memory," Reid said. "Languages are easy for me." He turned to Corrine and eased himself into the chair next to her bed, leaning forward slightly and looking completely casual. He spoke for a moment in perfect French, translating what Morgan had said; Corrine spoke rapidly, jabbering away in her native language. Reid said, not looking away from her, "Morgan—get me paper and a pen, would you? In my bag."

Morgan went through the bag sitting at Reid's feet—definitely Reid's, he thought; everything was in very careful order, including what looked like two textbooks. He shoved a notebook and a black pen into Reid's hands, and the younger agent started writing immediately.

This lasted for another ten or fifteen minutes, both voices intertwining; neither Morgan nor Richards had any idea what they were talking about, but their speech sped up until Reid stood, the page he'd been writing on covered in his handwriting, as was the page before that.

"Well, that was... informative," Reid said and stuffed the notebook back into his bag. "I think we should talk about it at the station, though." There was something in the way that he spoke that made Morgan think that Corrine Grey had given him more to think about than he'd anticipated—but he wasn't about to bring that up in front of Richards. Even if he'd wanted to, though, he would've been out of luck, because Reid started to walk back down to the reserved parking lot.

"...Seriously?" Richards asked, staring after him.

Morgan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Yeah... he does that," he said, and Richards shook his head.

—

"Reid, you wrote half of this in French!"

"What?"

Morgan put his head in his hands for a second. "We can't read it."

"Shit," Reid said after a second, perusing the notebook. "I'm sorry—uhm, I can rewrite it, let me just—"

He stood without finishing his sentence—he was lucky that Hotch wasn't there, Morgan thought and grinned, because Hotch would've made him sit back down and finish what he was trying to say. "Don't bother writing it out, Reid," he said, shaking his head. "Just start talking."

"She was eager to talk, which is obviously a good thing," Reid began promptly. "She said that she had been walking home from work—she's a waitress at the Empty Wineskin, which she says is on Sherman and East 165th—" He turned the whiteboard and began writing, needing something to do with his hands, Morgan was sure. "She said that she lives in West Farms, but didn't give me an actual address. Anything?"

"Fuck, West Farms is about as bad as you can get in the Bronx," Richards said. "Sherman and 165th aren't good, either. I'd hazard a guess that she was doing a little more than waitressing."

"I'll have our girl look up her record," Morgan said. "Keep going, Reid."

"She said that the time was around one thirty or two—consistent with the rest of our victims—and that she was more or less alone on the street when she was attacked. Said that there were a couple of people—what looked like a man and a woman, but they were pretty far ahead of her, and they had their backs to her. She said that her attacker approached her from behind and put his hand over her mouth; he was much bigger than her and easily overpowered her. He dragged her into an alley, kept her from screaming; she said that she thought she was going to be raped, because of what had happened to the other girls, but he just brought out his knife." A pause. "She said it was big, serrated, and clean."

"Any physical details she could give us about this guy?" Morgan asked, arms behind his head, leaning back in his chair.

"That's where this gets interesting," Reid said carefully. "She says that he was big, like I said earlier, big enough to completely overpower her and the other seven women. He was black, she says, but not what she called 'true black'—which means, I suppose, that he wasn't black like her."

"What's so strange about that?" Richards said.

"I'm getting there. She said he 'felt familiar'," Reid said. "She said that she knew him from somewhere—but she couldn't remember from where. She said that it wasn't his face—it was his hands and the way he moved."

A silence greeted these words.

"She definitely couldn't remember where?" Richards finally asked, and Reid sighed.

"No... she was trying, too. She was upset that she couldn't."

"Fuck," Morgan said suddenly, slamming a hand down on the table. "She has to. We have to go back and talk to her again—"  
"Not until tomorrow," Richards interrupted. "There's nothing we can do until tomorrow, we were the last visitors the hospital allowed."

"She has a police guard, doesn't she?" Reid asked, his brows contracting slightly. "I mean—we're not just leaving her—"

"No, no, of course not," Richards said confidently. "She'll be just fine in the hospital."

"Alright," Morgan said, looking slightly more reassured. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Richards said. "And you can question her all you want. For tonight, though, you two should go back to your hotel—Dr. Reid looks dead on his feet, and you don't look much better, Agent Morgan."

"Yeah... I doubt I do," Morgan said, his voice tired. "See you tomorrow, Captain."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Alright, I wasn't overly fond of my original chapter four, but I like this one a lot better, and it actually (gasp!) furthers the plot! I'm probably going to use the original chapter four somewhere else, rest assured.

"She's asleep at the moment, Dr. Reid," Dr. Butler said, closing the curtains around Corrine's bed. "She should be awake within the next hour, however. Would you like to wait?"

"I'll wait, yes," Reid said. "I'm going to go down to the cafeteria to try and find some coffee, however, but I'll be up around..." He glanced at the clock. "Eleven forty."

"If she wakes before then, I'll tell her that you're stopping by."

"Thank you, Doctor." Reid took off down the stairs, preferring to take them instead of the elevators, disliking them as a general rule. Stories three, two, one, and the big, well-lit cafeteria; he had been down here before, but only twice. Today, at ten fifty in the morning, it was nearly empty, other than a few newly off-duty cops at one table in the corner. Reid felt like he stuck out; for once, he wasn't impeccably dressed, like usual, instead dressed in jeans, an old, comfortable gray tee-shirt, and the only hooded sweatshirt he owned: an immaculately clean white hoodie that said CALTECH in bright orange letters on the front. It was baggy on him, even now, almost ten years after he'd earned his first doctorate; he had grown taller since seventeen, but he'd barely put on any weight.

"What can I get for you, honey?" The woman waiting on him was one of the many older ladies that volunteered in the kitchens on weekends, and she had been the one to wait on him the morning before.

"Uhm... a large coffee, and a blueberry muffin."

"I wouldn't," a young male voice said behind him, and Reid glanced over his shoulder; a young officer—Reid assumed; his dark hair was crew-cut and he was in street clothes, but they were very nice—stood behind him, a five dollar bill in hand.

"Oh? And why is that, Mr. Special Officer Prince?" the worker said, putting one pudgy little hand on her hip, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Well, since it _is_ Annabelle working..."

"Hush, you," she said, full-on smiling now.

"I'm kidding," Prince said, smiling as well. "Annabelle's muffins are more than satisfactory—my opinion, of course."

"Hush!" Annabelle turned back to Reid. "Any cream or sugar in that coffee, dear?"

"Uhm... as much as you can put in it for it to still be considered coffee, please," the young agent said, taking the Saran-wrapped muffin she handed him. Annabelle laughed and handed him a large Styrofoam cup with a black plastic lid and he handed her his cash—exact change, before she even said the total. He often did that if he was bored in line at the grocery store, adding up the prices and taxes of each item and having the money ready in his hand when the cashier opened their mouth to tell him the total. It fucked with people, he knew, but he didn't really care.

"Thank you, honey." He smiled in response and took a seat at one of the far tables, setting his bag in the chair next to him and opening it; it was a plain, unassuming messenger bag, gray and black, but it carried what Reid always needed: two notebooks, at least six pens, two textbooks, his iPod, and at least one book. The current book was Rand's _Atlas Shrugged_; he'd read it at six, but he'd always loved the book, and he had just gotten into Dagny's flight in pursuit of Quentin Daniels when he sensed someone near him.

"Mind if I sit here?"

It was Prince; he knew that without even looking up. He nodded, folding down the page of his book (it was a terrible habit, but he'd always done it) and looked up; Prince was easing his fairly large frame into the chair across from him. He wasn't fat, by any means—muscular, though not really comparable to Morgan. He was leaner, rangier, than the agent, and perhaps two inches taller; his skin tone was slightly darker. He had a pleasant face, a broad nose and lips and slightly slanted dark eyes, all of it accompanied by high, proud cheekbones. Definitely handsome. And the smile that he flashed Reid made him even better.

"Raymonde Prince," he said, extending a hand. "NYPD."

"I know, we've met—or, at least, Richards told us who you are. Spencer Reid, FBI."

"Ahh, you're one of the BAU agents!" Prince smiled. "Everybody working this case has heard a ton about you and—Morgan, right?" Reid nodded. "We all hope you can help us. The NYPD has a great team, but... this is too much, even for us."

"Agent Morgan and I are honored to work with Richards and everyone under him," Reid said. "The NYPD, as you said, has a phenomenal team." He took a sip of his coffee and closed his eyes for a moment: perfect.

"Hospital coffee is roughly eighty-four times better than station coffee," Prince said, grinning. "One of the stereotypes that actually holds true."

"Definitely. I get to go all over America, from station to station, and experience the worst of the worst."

"Speaking of which—Caltech?"

Reid nodded. "Class of 1999."

"Jesus, you're a lot older than you look."

"Twenty-seven, actually. And that was my doctorate."

"Holy hell. Did you graduate high school when you were like... twelve?"

Reid laughed—for the first time in a while, he didn't feel horribly awkward and put on the spot when someone asked him questions about that. "Actually, yeah... a little after my twelfth birthday."

Prince shook his head. "You're bullshitting me."

"Not at all. Prodigy."

"So you got your doctorate at seventeen?"

"My first. I got my second at nineteen, and my third at twenty-one."

"Jesus! I'm working on my first!"

"In what?"

"Sociology. You?"

"Ahh... guess."

"Hmm." Prince brought his index finger to his chin, looking mock-thoughtful for a moment. "Art."

Reid laughed outright. "Seriously?"

"Yeah! You've got the starving-artist look down pat."

"Oh, damn. Uhm... my first was mathematics, actually."

Prince's eyebrows shot up. "Shit. The rest?"

"Engineering and chemistry."

"And you're a behavioral analyst?"

"Yeah... I was sort of... recruited. I was planning on being a lecturer, really, but this is a lot more rewarding."

"Yeah... I was sort of planning on being a counselor or social worker, between you and me, but my dad and grandpa were both cops, so I sort of followed in the family tradition."

Reid nodded, but his pocket began to beep before he could say anything else.

"Dr. Reid." He listened for a moment and grinned. "Morgan, I'm at the hospital visiting Corrine. Relax, I'm fine—no, I'll be back soon." He hung up, glancing at Prince—who was grinning.

"Overprotective partner?"

"You could say that. For good reason, really—I always manage to get hurt, somehow."

"Yeah, I get that, too... Richards was the one that got me on the force, and I guess you could say we have sort of a protégé-mentor relationship." The grin faded. "He's a great guy, and I don't think anybody on our team could ask for a better captain."

"He seems like he knows what he's doing, that's for sure," Reid said, taking another drink.

The conversation passed this way for another twenty-five minutes, and by the time eleven forty came up, Reid almost glad to leave—he was talking far too much, and Prince probably thought he was a complete dumbass. But Prince apparently didn't mind his company too much, because he had become—well, there was no other word for it but flirty, over the past few minutes.

"Uhm—are you visiting Corrine tomorrow, too?" Prince asked, standing when Reid stood; for the first time, the officer seemed slightly nervous.

"I was planning on it, yes."

"Well—I'm on the same schedule every day this week, and I get off at ten thirty... d'you, uhm, want to meet here for coffee tomorrow? Same time, same place?"

Reid smiled. "Yeah... that sounds nice."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Yeah, I'm a fucker. Also, the Morgan/Reid scene in the backyard is best read while listening to Band of Horses' 'The Funeral', just so you know.

Reid looked up at Morgan from his spot on the floor, crouching next to Corrine's bed.

"She wants to know if she can go home," he said, smiling. Morgan grinned back at him; visiting this young woman in the hospital was obviously a high point of this case for Reid; the young agent had told him that he found her 'charming, intelligent and sweet'—and very pretty, even under the bandages, though he hadn't added that. Morgan knew that, while bisexual, Reid tended to lean towards men; however, he couldn't help but get the feeling that the words spoken between them were about more than just the case.

"Tell her she can."

Reid spoke a few words and the girl's sudden excitement was practically tangible, but Reid said something and she calmed. Morgan watched curiously as she spoke, quietly and hesitantly.

"Please connect me... to Agent Spencer Reid. I have information for him."

She had a heavy accent, but her words were clear; however, that didn't explain why she had all of a sudden learned some English.

"I taught her to call the police and tell them that if she remembers anything about that night," Reid explained, in response to Morgan's questioning look. "The police have my number, and I told them to call me as soon as she calls—if she calls, no matter what time."

Morgan nodded slowly. "Good idea," he said, and paused. "But run that kind of shit by me before you do it again."

"Alright," Reid said, flushing slightly, before turning back to Corrine. They spoke for a moment, and Reid turned back to Morgan.

"What?"

"She wants to know if she's going to be safe," he said quietly.

Morgan nodded, and Corrine, catching the movement, clutched Reid's long-fingered hand. She spoke one word, a soft, pleading word, and Morgan saw Reid freeze. The younger agent swallowed with difficulty, staring at his and Corrine's hands clasped together.

"What did she say?" Morgan asked softly, and Reid said, not looking away, "She asked me to promise."

Morgan was silent, and Reid spoke, the same word that Corrine had spoken with a pleading question in her voice, with a certainty in his that Morgan didn't think he felt.

—

The clock beside Reid's bed read four forty-seven, glowing red against the darkness of the room. Everything was silent—even Morgan, for once, wasn't tossing and turning and snoring like a chainsaw. Even Reid was sleeping peacefully, one arm under his head—a deep, steady, dreamless sleep, for once in a long time. He had only been truly asleep for about two hours.

The ring sounded like a scream in the pre-dawn stillness, and the young agent jerked awake, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He snatched the phone from the bedside table—

"Reid," he said, his voice not at all revealing that he had been asleep literally thirty second before.

"Agent Reid? This is Richards with the NYPD, we're going to need you and Agent Morgan out here as soon as possible—4227 West Farms Road."

Something in Richards' voice alerted Reid; he glanced over at Morgan, who was out of bed and pulling on jeans and socks.

"We'll be there in ten," he said, standing and reaching for a shirt.

—

"Fuck."

Morgan stood in the doorway of Corrine Grey's house, his hands jammed in his pockets; Reid was crouching next to the body.

"It was him, all right," Richards said hollowly. "Everything's consistent, down to the blade used."

One of the officers, the young, handsome Officer Prince, walked into the room and stepped quickly back, eyes wide. "Jesus," he said, swallowing past what Morgan knew to be a dry throat.

"Go back outside, Ray... the media's gonna catch wind of this any minute," Richards said, watching the officer step back out the door. Reid stood abruptly, turning his back on the body, and crossed the room in a handful of long strides. Morgan heard what had to have been the back door slam; he glanced at Richards and followed his partner out.

Reid stood in the little patch of grass that passed for a backyard, his face upturned towards New York City's pre-dawn sky. Morgan came to stand beside him.

There was a moment of quiet, and Morgan said, softly, "You can't blame yourself, Spencer."

"I can," Reid said, just as quietly, "and I will."

"It's not your fault."

Reid turned to him, staring him in the face. "How?" he asked, and Morgan caught his eyes, bright and anguished. "We sent her home, Morgan—I told her, I _promised_ her that she would be safe—" He stopped himself, drawing a long, shaky breath. "God damn it, I thought she would be safe..."

"So did I," Morgan said. "Reid, listen—you had every reason to think that she'd be safe, she was supposed to have a police watch—"

Reid paused—he had started to walk back to the house. "What the hell happened?"

Morgan shook his head. "I was planning on asking."

They walked back into the house, through the tiny kitchen and into the living room, where the body was laying. It was obvious that there had been some kind of struggle—a lamp was on the floor, unbroken, and the small, threadbare couch had been shoved to one side.

"What happened to the police guard, Richards?" Morgan said shortly, and Richards passed a hand over his worn face.

"Prince can explain it better than I can," he said after a moment. "Donahue, get Ray, he's outside."

Raymonde Prince was inside a moment later; Spencer gave no sign of recognition. "Yes, sir?"

"Explain to them what you told me."

"The shift change happened at three," Prince began without prelude. "Myself and Officers Knapp, Moore, DioPaulo and Donahue. Completely quiet until four ten; I wasn't at the house—it's mandatory for police watches that one of us go back to the station and fills out a written report every hour. Somehow, signals got crossed and our team got called down to a multiple-perp armed robbery on 164th. I wasn't informed that the vic was completely unprotected until around fifty, and I hauled ass back here, but when I got here..." He gestured to the scene. "All I could do was call for backup."

"Thank you," Morgan said, and turned to Richards. "Did they at least get the call-in perps?"

Richards shook his head. "There was no armed robbery on 164th, or 63rd or 65th, just in case the caller was mixed up—it happens a lot on those streets. It was a fake call-in, and I'll bet my life that it was this sick son of a bitch that called it."

"No traceable number?"

"Pay phone."

"Son of a bitch." Morgan suddenly sounded exhausted. "Back to square fucking one, it looks like."

"We'll talk more about it later," Richards said. "For now, you two need sleep."

Reid nodded mutely, all of a sudden too drained to really think straight, and Morgan nodded. "Yeah." He sighed a moment later and said, "I need to call Garcia and update her, actually. Reid, go back to the hotel and try to sleep."

"I'm fine, I can stay."

"You were awake until two," Morgan said; Reid didn't even want to push how he knew that. "Go back and go to sleep." He looked out the window: the sun was starting to rise. Reid was quiet for a moment before finally relenting. "Alright, I'll get a taxi."

"I'm actually going to head out, too," Prince said from the doorway. "My shift's up... you could ride with me, save the Bureau the money."

Reid paused for a moment before nodding.

"Yeah," he said finally. "That's fine."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Three points I want to cover in this little author's note.

001) This isn't all of the chapter I planned on uploading, but the original was going to be _huge_—I handwrite all of this fic and then type it, and usually what I handwrite that day I type that night and that's that chapter. However, I've been working on this bit for the better part of two days, and realized as I was typing that it was massive, so I split it up.

002) Reviewing. Seriously, guys, I'm really grateful that you think that my story is good enough to get alerts for, but a good review—and by 'good' I mean well-worded and concise—is worth about five story alert alerts.

003) I try to triple-check my documents for typos, but I apologize beforehand if you see any that I missed—my fingers are so fucking cold at the moment that it's difficult to type.

On that (long) note—happy reading!

"Welcome to the fortress of the all-seeing, how may I be of assistance?"

"I need everything you can find on Corrine Grey, baby girl."

"Of course, sweet-cheeks." A yawn.

Morgan glanced at the clock—three fifty-six. Reid wasn't in the room, but that wasn't surprising; it seemed like the younger agent needed about half the sleep Morgan did to remain functional. Fuck, that made him feel old.

"You were asleep?"

"Hotch had me up until about seven this morning," Garcia said. "Got a couple hours of sleep, but they needed me again at eleven. I actually just went to sleep a few minutes ago."  
"Get some sleep!"  
"No, you need me to look somebody up..." Garcia sounded tired and, even after this last terrible crime scene, Morgan softened. He'd always had a special place in his heart for Penelope Garcia, and everyone knew it.

"Take your time, baby, I'm not in any big hurry."

"Okay. You want to call me back in ten?"

"Yeah." He hung up and stood, walking into the bathroom and beginning to strip: a shower sounded amazing. He was in and out within twelve minutes and dressed, a tee-shirt and jeans, as simple as it got; he called Garcia as soon as he'd pulled the shirt completely over his head.

"Anything?"

"Born in Haiti," Garcia began without preamble. "Twenty-three.. damn, she was pretty. Lived in the Bronx, legal immigrant, looking for her record..." A pause. "Picked up three months ago in West Farms."

"For?" Morgan thought he knew the answer, but thought it wise to ask anyway.

"Prostitution," Garcia said and sighed.

"Anyone with her?"

"Uhm... E. Higgins."

"Ella Higgins. Victim five." Morgan closed his eyes. "We're getting somewhere."

"Ms. Grey did a night in jail and her bail and fines were paid," Garcia continued.

That caught Morgan's attention, too. "Any record of who paid?"

"Devere Brown, twenty-eight."

"Address?"

"Doesn't matter—he's dead. Four days after he paid her bail in what was thought to be a gang-related shooting. Dude had a record a mile long, but it included drug trafficking and profiting from the earnings of a prostitute."

Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose. "That was a good lead. Run him against the other vics—you've got the list Reid gave you, right?"

"Yeah, just a second..." Silence for about thirty seconds, other than the rapid tapping and clicking that he would forever associate with Garcia. "Nothing, other than Ella Higgins—he paid off her fines for prostitution, too."

"Anything else? Anybody stick out?" Morgan was bothered by that—it would've been a hell of a lead.

"Nope—sorry, hot stuff."

"It's fine—" He cut himself off, his mind suddenly leaping into overdrive. "Son of a bitch," he said softly, "why didn't I think of it before? Corrine and Ella, both victims, both picked up around the same time, it's too much of a coincidence—Garcia, who was the arresting officer that night?"

"Badge number two-one-five-eight, I've been trying to hack into the NYPD personnel system for the past five minutes but they've got it so heavily encrypted—"

"Good—thank you, baby girl, and when you find him, find everything you can, treat him like a suspect—"

"Of course—bye—" Garcia's voice was taking on that frenzied quality that meant she was close to finding something important, and Morgan knew that it was no use trying to talk to her in that state.

He hung up, staring into space: this was the further he'd gotten in this case, and he wanted Reid, here, too, but he had no fucking idea where he was. It wasn't surprising, really—Reid had been absent a lot lately.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, his phone rang.

"Morgan."

"Come down to the station." Richards. "We have new information and it's fresh from Grey's house—" A tense pause. "Our boy made a mistake."

Morgan smiled. "Good," he said, already finding his bag. "Want me to call Reid?"

"Yes."

"Be there by fifteen after."

"Good." A click and the dial tone sounded in his ear. Morgan dialed Reid's number by heart and was rewarded with a ring and a curt "Dr. Reid."

"Reid—where are you?"

"Morgan? In the lobby of the hotel, actually—"

"Stay there, we're going to the station."

He hung up and took the stairs two and three at a time, bursting into the lobby in under a minute; Reid fell into step beside him, questioning him fruitlessly until they got to the government-issued SUV. Morgan turned on him, and Reid cocked an eyebrow.

"What am I getting that look for?"

"Where were you all day?"

"I slept until two and was at the Starbucks down the street until about twenty minutes ago."

"Why?"

"Why what?" Reid got into the passenger seat, having long ago accepted the fact that he was never going to drive the SUV.

"Why were you there?" Morgan got into the driver's seat and started the vehicle.

"Free WiFi?" Reid didn't sound defensive—just curious and slightly confused. "I needed to finish my thesis for philosophy and I forgot the right textbook..."

"Were you meeting Prince?"

"No!" Reid _was_ a little defensive now. "Christ, Morgan, are you jealous or something?"

"Jealous of _what_?" Morgan snapped, and saw Reid's hands clench: he was digging his nails into his palms, as he always did when he was angry or stressed.

"Nothing," he said. "No, I wasn't meeting him—he's at the station right now, actually. And, if you're that curious, my fucking paper is saved on my laptop."

"Whatever," Morgan mumbled. "Just—remember what Hotch said about making friends." He paused. "I don't care if you're fucking him or really just getting coffee with him, but keep in mind that we have _no one_ ruled out of this case yet—you can't trust anyone but me and the team."

"I'm not stupid, Morgan," Reid said, his voice low and angry. "Jesus, he doesn't even fit the profile!"

"We don't _have_ a profile, Reid!"

"Yes we do! We're looking at someone with Jamaican or Haitian lineage, male, twenty to forty—"

"Yeah, and Prince isn't darker than me and probably younger—"

"—and his parents are more than likely separated if not legally divorced, absent father, and his mother is definitely from the Caribbean, probably immigrated when he was young, he has a juvenile record for either sexual or violent crimes, he's—"

"How do you know all of that doesn't apply to Prince?" They were on the road now, heading to the station, and Morgan was suddenly glad that he could drive and argue at the same time—traffic was fucking terrible in New York City.

"Because his parents—both of them, biological parents—live in Boston, and his mother is Italian," Reid said quickly, "and his grandfather and father were both cops with the NYPD and the NYPD doesn't let sexual offenders into the squad—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Reid!" Morgan said, "Did he tell you his life story or—"

"You realize that we've talked for at least forty-five minutes every day for the part four days?" Reid said; his voice, in stark contrast to Morgan's, was growing steadily quieter.

"So?"

"Derek—" And Morgan knew that he may have actually crossed a line this time, because Reid never called him 'Derek'. "Why are you acting like this?"

"I'm just _worried!_" Morgan slammed his hand, palm-first, into the steering wheel. "You don't know who this guy is, and you're spending a ton of time with him, and—"

"I'm not a _child_, Derek," and the hurt tone in Reid's voice is gone. "I can take care of myself, whether or not you believe it... so would you _please_ just drop it?"

Morgan shook his head, still angry, but there was something in Reid's voice that told him that obeying the young agent would be a good idea. "Alright," he said finally—he was pulling into the station parking lot by now. "Just... be careful, okay?"

"Yeah," Reid said shortly. He was out of the SUV before Morgan had even turned it off.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Oh my sweet baby Jesus, guys, I'm SO SORRY it's taken me so long to update! My muse for this piece was on the brink of death, but I managed to bring her back (with a lot of help from Jakob Dylan's solo album). I seriously have the next few chapters of this planned out—I just need to get the time to type it all out.

"I thought you said he made a mistake."

Reid was the only person in the room that knew how irritated Morgan really was: the older agent was holding himself with a deliberate stillness, staring down at the photographs on the table. Reid stepped up to stand next to him, his eyes narrowed.

"He did," the young doctor said, quietly, after a few long seconds. "Look..." A long, thin finger touches what seemed to be a spot on the photograph. "Look at the blood around where the body had been, and look here—there's no logical reason for there to be any of her blood in that specific spot, she was killed where she fell, we already determined that from the lack of blood anywhere else, so that blood spot there—"

"Isn't hers," Richardson said heavily. "We ran the sample—it's male, no doubt about that, but we'd need a direct DNA sample for any conclusive results—"

"How do you think she injured him?" Morgan cut in, staring at the pictures again.

"There was skin and blood underneath her fingernails," Richardson said. "Enough that there would be scratches on the sick son of a bitch that attacked her—I would say forearms, but look at the neck and face, too."

"Right... thanks," Morgan said abruptly, turning and walking away from the officers; his body was one long line of tight control and he moved gracefully, but Reid could practically read the agitation in his movements.

"Thank you," the younger agent said, then quickly walked after his partner, his hands jammed in his pockets. He had the sense to wait until they were outside the station before he darted in front of Morgan, his eyes narrowed.

"What the hell was that?"

Morgan tried to go around him, but Reid matched every dodge he tried to make like a well-trained sheepdog. "What was _what_, Reid?" Morgan finally asked, exasperated.

"You were incredibly rude back there!"

"Pardon me if I can't pretend to be delighted when they call us down to their station for _nothing_," Morgan spat, "to remind us that we're no closer to catching this guy than Jack the fucking Ripper—"

"Morgan, get in the car and shut the fuck up," Reid said quietly; there were a few officers standing near the wall, smoking, that he hadn't noticed before; they were all watching the little drama play out between the two agents. "We'll—"

"Spencer!"

_Jesus_, Reid thought, turning to see Prince walking towards him with that familiar, confident stride, dressed, as always, immaculately—he managed to make his police uniform look good, simply by throwing a black wool blazer over it.

"We'll what, Reid?" Morgan said from behind him, and Reid turned.

"We'll continue this at the hotel."

"No," Morgan said quietly. "We won't. Nothing else to discuss." A pause. "Take your time." Reid heard the door slam behind him and swore under his breath, quietly enough that Prince didn't hear him.

"Uhm—sorry if I interrupted anything," Prince said after a moment.

Reid shook his head. "You're cute and all, but you have terrible timing," he offered. "But... don't worry about it. Did you need anything?"

"Oh—uhm, I sort of lost your number—I was just wondering if you were busy tonight?"

"Tonight?" Reid repeated blankly. "Uhm... no, I'm not—why?" His mind was trying to come up with reasons as to why Prince would be asking that question, but before he could struggle too much, the other man helped him out.

"I was just thinking, you know, maybe we could get drinks or something after I'm off?"

"Oh!"

Oh, wow. He was... was he asking him out?

"Uhm—yeah, sure, that sounds good," Reid said quickly. "My number's 703-630-0090, just text me when you're off, alright?"

"Yeah," Prince said, grinning. "It should be around nine."

"Alright." Reid returned the grin before turning and getting into the SUV, where he was met with an extremely stony-faced Morgan.

The ride back to the hotel was utterly silent.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: More plot exposition! **

Two hours and twenty-one minutes.

Morgan glanced at his watch for the third time in the past twenty minutes; indeed, his watch was the only thing that took his eyes off of the case files in front of him. Two hours and twenty-two minutes since Reid had left the hotel with Prince.

He had left for the police station after an hour and a half of fruitlessly trying to distract himself with notes about the case; this immersion in the full case files was actually working to keep his mind off of his partner.

His mind, like a badly-trained dog on a too-short leash, had tried to go back to the reason that this was bothering him, but he refused to let it; he'd had romantic feelings towards other men before, but never someone as close to him as Reid—never before had he had so much to lose. And that was why he couldn't entertain the idea, even if Reid's words on their way to the police station_—"Are you jealous or something?"—_still sent pangs through him, especially when he remembered how well he had pretended that there was nothing to be jealous of. He had been tempted to call Garcia about his situation—after all, she had been the one to tell him that Reid was hopelessly in love with him. But that would be entirely too close to admitting what he wouldn't even admit to himself—and plus, she was busy.

Almost like magic (or the psychic connection that Garcia always swore that they had), his Blackberry began to vibrate in his pocket.

"Hey, baby girl, I was just thinking about you," he said, falling easily into the role that he had become accustomed to when it was his favorite tech analyst on the phone. He was expecting something along the same lines, but that wasn't what he got.

"Derek—that cop that Reid's hanging around with? Prince?" Morgan felt something freeze in his chest; he motioned for an officer to get Richards, and quickly. "He's badge two-one-five-eight—and everything about him fits the profile—" She was speaking quickly, but Morgan interrupted her as Richards walked into the room, looking slightly harried. "Garcia, you're on speaker, start from the beginning."

She took a breath. "Okay, I cracked into the NYPD's personnel database—"

"She _what_?" Richard said loudly, staring at the phone. Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose—he hadn't thought about that. "Our database is one of the best guarded in the country—"

"Yes, I'm sure it was well-guarded, honey, but nothing gets past me—anyway, I was trying to find badge number two-one-five-eight and finally hit on it, it's—"

"Prince," Richards said; his voice was low and had the quality of a moan of pain. "Ray Prince."

"Yes, sir, and he fits the profile like it's a biography. Mother was born in Jamaica, had him in what looks like the biggest slum in the country, immigrated to America when he was ten—she was arrested and charged with a ton of petty crimes and a few serious ones, notably prostitution and endangering the welfare of a child. Looks like she got CPS called on her a few times—there's no information on his father or any other relatives to speak of. His mother died two years ago—she had AIDS."

"That's the stressor," Morgan said softly. "Garcia, baby girl, anything else on Prince himself?"

"Juvenile record—violent crimes, aggravated assault, but none of it ever made it to court."

"Violent as a kid." Morgan stood; he could feel adrenaline buzzing in his veins, tempered by fear and something like rage. "Garcia, I need you to trace Reid's cell—"

"Why?" Richards asked; the man looked faintly ill, but he wasn't a captain for nothing, and his voice was exceptionally steady, if a little quiet.

"Prince and my partner are out for drinks as we speak," Morgan said. "Garcia, honey, come on, anything—?"

"It—it's off," she stammered. "Reid never turns his phone off—"

"Prince's number is 213-753-8954," Richards said. "Try that."

"Either off or dead, too," Garcia said breathlessly. "Damn it, I'm sorry—"

"It's fine, baby girl—Richards, we need to find them—"

"Give me two minutes," Richards said, standing as well. "Have your girl try and track Prince's car location, I know he uses OnStar and he's got a GPS system besides that—"

"Plates?" Garcia said immediately.

"Three-one-Nora-two-King-Lincoln," Richards rattled off. "Be right back, I need to talk to one of the girls, I saw Prince talking to her earlier and he said something about a bar—" He was out of the room in seconds and Morgan was left with the sound of keys clacking in Garcia's cave and the sick, dizzy feeling of fear.

"It's at 34 East Hanson—the residence listed on his NYPD file," Garcia said, sounding slightly exasperated. "Damn it!"

"The Red Dragon," Richards said from the doorway. "He let the name slip to the one of the office girls—"

"Let's go," Morgan said, snatching his phone. "Baby girl, call me as _soon_ as you find something, alright?"

"Of course—" Garcia hung up first, but not before he heard the feverish tapping of a keyboard.

"The Red Dragon," Morgan said. "You know—?"

"Yeah, I know where it is," Richards said. An officer came into step with them, asking Richards in hushed tones if he wanted any backup, but Richards shook his head.

"No," the captain said curtly, "I think I can handle myself." He shook his head, then added, disgusted, "Morgan, you might want to take away my gun when I see that little bastard."

"You'll want to take away mine," Morgan said quietly. They were in an unmarked police car within a minute, and they were speeding towards the Red Dragon seconds later.

**A/N: I'm sure I just confirmed what you all suspected, but hey, it's an update, right? The next should be coming soon—Sunday at the latest, if everything goes well. Remember to review!**


	9. Chapter 9

The Red Dragon was the kind of bar often displayed in movies about police: small, well-priced, nicely furnished the entire atmosphere was one of privacy, and the booths and soft, dimmed lighting only enhanced that feeling. It was the type of place that Reid would have loved, Morgan reflected—if he and Prince had ever been there at all.

He and Richards walked in, the agent first and the captain second; the bar was busy this time of night—Morgan figured that every bar on this side of New York City was busy at ten thirty on a Friday. However, Richards cut an impressive figure in his suit and Morgan exuded authority, and they found themselves with openings through the crowd without any problem.

The majority of the traffic seemed to be going to and from the bar; Richards jerked his head towards the bartender and Morgan nodded and followed.

"Ma'am," Richards said, getting the attention of the young woman. She glanced at him and said, "Hold on a minute, I got other customers—"

"Their screwdrivers can wait," Morgan barked; his patience was already clearly on the verge of snapping. His credentials were in his hand and he flashed them at the bartender; even though they were only displayed for five seconds at the most, there was no mistaking the FBI logo, proud and gleaming. The bartender's eyes widened and her demeanor changed almost immediately; she called over a young man from the back, telling him shortly to start taking orders. She dried her hands on a small towel and followed the two men to the quieter end of the bar.

"Two men," Morgan began without preamble. "One black, darker than me, and tall, very confident and charming. One white, skinny, tall, long hair, wearing jeans, a tee-shirt and a vest. They would be together. Sound familiar?"

"Yes, sir, they were here up until about fifteen minutes ago," she said, surely but nervously. "They in some kinda trouble?"

"One of them," Richards said. "Ma'am, did you see anything that may give us an idea as to where they may have gone?"

"Didn't need to see anything," she said, shaking her head. "Heard the skinny one tell the other one that they should go back to his hotel."

"Did the other one agree?" Morgan asked quickly.

"Yes, sir," she said. "Looked at that skinny boy like he had a bedroom on his mind."

Repulsed, Morgan nodded and turned away, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. He heard Richards thanking the bartender; they exited quickly, both of them falling into the same pattern of step, quick and tense and agitated. Morgan wanted to run, to release some of this pent-up feeling, but he knew that the unmarked was just outside the door and it would be no use. He released some of it by hitting the gas the second Richards was in the car; Richards' face paled but he wisely said nothing.

"King Hotel," Morgan said tersely. "How far?"

"Long enough to want to take a cab in this weather," Richards said. "Ten blocks, maybe twelve. They'll only have been there for five minutes or less."

"Good." Morgan proceeded to drive like no sensible person would have with a police captain in their vehicle, but it couldn't have been clearer that Morgan didn't give a damn at the moment—they made it to the hotel more quickly than any reasonable person would have expected. Morgan had barely stopped the car when he was out of it; the moment his feet hit the pavement he was running towards the entrance to the hotel, Richards close behind.

—

Raymonde Prince looked handsome in his uniform, but he looked _amazing_ out of it. There was no other term for it, Reid had decided. He was tall, dark and handsome—and, while Reid tried not to play into clichés, this one was obviously working out rather well for him. Especially since it had led him to him currently being sandwiched between the wall of his and Morgan's hotel room and the police officer, which was not at all an unpleasant place to be.

Well, until Prince broke away.

"Hey... look at me." Reid did, eyebrows raised. "You feeling alright?"

"Yeah, I feel fine... why?" Reid traced the other man's arm through the sleeve of his shirt, trying to tell him that there was no reason to stop without using words.

"Your pupils—they look really dilated," Prince said, hooking his index and middle fingers under Reid's chin, gently, to lift his face up. "Go look and tell me if I'm imagining things."

Reid leaned up and pressed their lips together, grinning slightly. "Do I have to?"

"Yes," Prince said, kissing him again, a little deeper. "Just to satisfy me, alright?" Another kiss. "And then we'll continue."

"Deal," Reid murmured, pushing Prince's chest, lightly, and half-stumbling into the bathroom. It only took a glance to convince him that his pupils weren't dilated—it must have been a trick of the light or something, but it was sweet that Prince had insisted that he check.

"I'm fine," he said, walking back into the main room.

For a moment, his brilliant mind couldn't connect this situation with the one before it: why was Prince—Prince, the smart, funny police officer, the good kisser—training a gun on him? And not just _a_ gun, Reid realized with a jolt of horror, _his_ gun. The gun he'd sat on the table next to his bed because, surely, he wouldn't have needed it tonight.

"Ray?" he said, his voice very steady; his hand was instinctively going for his belt, where his gun was always supposed to be. He was staring at the gun, at the position of Prince's hand: it was aimed at his chest, the broadest part of his body. He felt his mouth go dry.

"You should have listened to your partner," Prince said calmly, and pulled the trigger.

**A/N: Oh shit... yeah, I'm evil. Next chapter up by Sunday, hopefully! Remember to review. **


	10. Chapter 10

"Sir—sir!"

Morgan spun around, his heart pounding too hard in his chest. "_What_?" he snarled: the offender was a slender man of about forty, wearing a suit—the hotel clerk.

"You can't go up there, sir," the clerk said; he followed the two men doggedly, even though they were walking faster than he was. Morgan fumbled for his credentials while Richards said, "Why? What happened?"

"Some residents claimed to have heard gunshots on the third floor—"

Third floor. Room 412. His and Reid's room. _Shit. _

"—called the police," the clerk was saying. "They should be here any m—"

Morgan finally withdrew his credentials and thrust them at the clerk with more force than was necessary, snapping, "FBI, now if you'll excuse me—Richards, stay here and l—"

"Not gonna happen," Richards said abruptly, taking off towards the stairs. "My boys know what to do and you are _not_ going up there without backup—"

Morgan didn't want him to follow him, but there was no time to argue: he bolted past the police officer and took the stairs two at a time, Richards hot on his heels.

—

There were a lot of ways to avoid a bullet: a SWAT shield, a bulletproof vest, riot gear—he'd seen them all used many times with great effect, but there were other options, too, that he rarely saw.

For instance, when Prince began to speak, Reid realized what he needed to do; when Prince pulled the trigger, his body was already in the process of moving. It was strange, how slowly his mind was keeping up with his body; he half expected to feel the shock of pain associated with a bullet, but his body was almost a foot away from the hole in the wall. He looked at Prince: the man's lips had tightened—he wasn't pleased with this—Reid was supposed to have stood there like a good boy and taken a bullet to the chest—

Reid took him by surprise when he came at him—apparently Prince figured, FBI or not, that Reid was a pushover. The struggle that resulted was brief but violent and ended when Reid's long fingers curled into a fist and collided with the side of Prince's face—and, at the same time, he made a move for the gun.

The shock of the blow had, unknown to Reid, forced Prince's index finger down—and that, combined with the reflexive tightening of his grip on the gun, was what ultimately pulled the trigger. Reid's movements weren't all a bad thing: he had forced the gun down further, away from his chest, so that it was instead pointed into his upper stomach at an outward angle—

Reid fell, dropping to his knees, before the pain really hit him; he felt blood, hot and wet, blossoming to the front of his shirt. And then the pain struck, hard and without warning: it was an incredible, shocking impact; he felt as though he had been thrown back, though he stayed in the same spot—and everything seemed to be thrown into slow motion: he knew, scientifically, that a huge amount of adrenaline had been released from his adrenal medulla, causing his central nervous system synopses to fire faster, like a high-speed camera producing a slow-motion effect. He fell, then; he felt his lungs begin to squeeze, not so badly that he couldn't take a breath, and his breaths were agonizingly painful and short-lived; every breath that he took was a knife twisting in his lung. He began to lose his vision and realized that he was going into hypovolemic shock—he was losing too much blood—his breath began to come faster, faster, every one excruciating—

Prince stood above him, staring down at him; he made a move to raise the gun again, bringing it level with Reid's head, but paused, looking towards the door—and, though Reid didn't know it, he was listening to the sirens. And, for the first time, Reid wondered if he was going to die.

And, mercifully, that was around the same time he lost consciousness.

—

"412," Morgan shouted, rounding the corner to the third floor hallway. "Room 412—it's the fourth on the right—"

"He went that way!" A young woman's shout cut him off; she was pointing towards the other end of the hall. "Came out of the same room as the shots—"

Morgan looked at the door to his and Reid's room—the door was hanging wide open—he was suddenly faced with a tortuous decision—follow or see for himself the damage—?

"Get an ambulance," he barked, taking off down th hall, refusing to even consider that there may have been no need for an ambulance; Reid must be alive, he thought, anything else could not, would not, be—

He prayed that this hall would lead to an alley, somewhere narrow and dank that let him corner the bastard that had hurt his Reid, and he was in luck: that hall lead to another hall led to stairs that ended in a small alley, blocked by a chain-link fence at the opposite end.

"Prince!"

Morgan drew his gun; God, how he wanted to sent a bullet into the tall form pressed against the fence—Prince had to know: he had the look of an animal trapped in a cage, frightened and angry at once, looking all around him, seeking some form of escape. Finally he reached into the inside of his jacket—

Morgan knew that he should have shouted some warning, but he didn't: the bullet caught Prince's forearm and he dropped the gun, dropping to his knees a moment later.

"Get up," Morgan snarled, next to him in seconds, jerking him to his feet; his hand was wound around the exact spot as the bullet wound and he took extra care to dig his fingertips into the soft, blood-soaked flesh. Prince made a sound like a wounded animal and Morgan resisted the temptation to deck him.

Richards was coming down the stairs as Morgan was coming up; the captain's expression tightened at the sight of his former officer, but he didn't say anything, only led them up the stairs, where Morgan delivered Prince into the arms of three waiting police officers, all standing stony-faced and silent.

The entire hallway was very quiet, he realized belatedly—there were people standing in the doorways of all of the rooms, staring wide-eyed at the scene before them. Morgan watched the officers escort Prince down the hallway and out of sight; Richards, he noticed, was deliberately looking away from them. When the agent turned towards him, he discovered that Richards wasn't just diverting his attention from his protégé—he wasn't looking at him, either.

"Richards," Morgan said, his voice soft and controlled. It took the captain a few seconds to look at his face. "What...?"

He let the question hang, knowing that Richards would know what he was talking about. Richards looked away, glanced at him, and said, softly, "He's alive... but just barely."

Morgan swallowed with some difficulty, his hands curling into fists. "There's more."

"The EMTs... they don't know if he's going to make it."

Morgan was very quiet, very still, for a few seconds: then, without anything further, he was gone. Richards watched him until he turned the corner and disappeared, his heart sinking like a stone.

**A/N: Alright, we're nearing the end of this little piece, but I have about six other plots bouncing around in my head, so rest assured that you'll have something new when this ends. I'm seeing another chapter with an optional epilogue, unless my feelings about the Morgan/Reid element to this story get a lot stronger (please, for the love of God, tell me what you think about it in a review or private message or **_**something**_**), in which case it'll just be an epilogue. Okay, let's end this fucking huge author's note: REVIEW! Seriously, nine chapters, forty-three alerts and twenty-five reviews? Come on, I know you can all do better than that. Reviews are what keeps me writing. **


	11. Chapter 11

**2:54 AM, November 20**

"Why is it always you?"

Morgan's voice was quiet, just above a whisper, but it seemed unnaturally loud in Reid's hospital room. He would have been accustomed to noise and bustle and havoc in hospitals—in general, they were noisy places. But now, at almost three o'clock in the morning, all was very nearly silent, save for the slow, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor next to the bed.

Hotch had been informed of the night's events; from what he'd told Morgan, they had wrapped up the case in Chicago and had planned on taking the jet back tomorrow morning—however, that trip had been bumped up to midnight. They were expected sometime in the morning, sometime around five or five thirty. The doctors had told Morgan that Reid should be awake by then; the operation to remove the bullet had gone well—it had missed all vital organs and had, thank God, missed his spine by about two inches. He had, however, lost a lot of blood, and the doctors had gingerly explained to Morgan that it was best to keep him for at least another night to make sure that he would heal properly. Morgan had agreed for the simple reason that he hadn't known what else to do; it felt good to relinquish control to someone else, for a little while.

Morgan realized that his head had dropped into his hands; he had seen this position before: knees parted, feet planted on the ground, elbows on knees, his head in his hands. He automatically attributed it with grief; he had seen it many times in hospitals, in police stations, at the scene of horrific crimes—the classic pose of one bearing the weight of unendurable loss. He could not, would not, think about losing Reid, he thought, bringing his head up. Especially now, after the decision he had reached.

**11:19 PM, November 19**

The ambulance had already gone when Morgan reached the first floor of the hotel; he looked at one of the officers; before the agent had even asked the question, he said, "St. Mary's—on West and 189th."

"Thanks," Morgan said; he wasn't sure if the officer had heard him, especially since he had already turned and started heading for the parking lot. There was no need to tell Richards—after all, he thought, opening the door of the federal SUV, they'd gotten their man. Prince was in custody and would be in jail within an hour, for, at least, assault on a federal agent and murder—attempted murder, he corrected. He tried to train his thoughts back to Prince, and the fact that he was now in the back of the same cars he'd driven for years, but the usual feeling of pride and satisfaction didn't come. Because, yes, they'd gotten him—but at what cost?

**1:52 AM, November 20**

"Mr. Morgan? Or, uh, sorry—Agent Morgan?"

Morgan's head jerked up—it seemed that he had been sleeping, but he had been waiting for any news he could get, good or bad notwithstanding. He just needed news, something, anything.

"Yes?" The nurse was young and pretty but, for once, he was paying absolutely no attention to her looks.

"Agent Reid made it through surgery with few complications. The surgeons say that he should make it—he was awake for a few minutes, but they decided to put him back under again." She paused, then said, quietly, "Making it through the initial surgery is a very good sign, Agent. There's no reason to expect any serious complications."

Morgan sighed, relieved, and said, "Thank you." Then, with some trepidation: "How bad...?"

"The bullet missed all vital organs and dodged his spine by about two inches," she said. "But there was considerable bleeding, a large portion of which was internal—we usually see Class III and Class IV hemorrhaging when ballistic trauma is involved. It's very lucky that we got there in time." She paused, then said, "Other than the gunshot wound—there are a few contusions and abrasions to his head and neck, and he has a fairly severe concussion. But, like I said, Agent, there's no reason to expect him not to recover."

Morgan closed his eyes, willing away the image, and said, "Thank you... is there any way I can see him?"

The nurse smiled sadly. "At some point tonight, yes, but the doctors want to wait until he's definitely stabilized. Would you like me to tell you when you can come in?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll be out the moment they give me the okay."

She walked away, almost silent in her sensible flat-soled shoes, and he let his head drop again into his palm. He had been trying to keep his mind off of all of this until she had walked in, and he had been doing a decent job; the waiting room was completely empty—mostly because it wasn't the common waiting room; the head of staff had told him to wait in his office. It wouldn't have mattered to him either way, but the office did provide the silence that the waiting room wouldn't have.

He took his phone out of his pocket and texted Garcia quickly, telling her what the nurse had told him and sending it; she had called a couple of times but had, at the second call, apparently gotten the hint that he didn't want to talk—not to anyone but Reid, anyway.

And Reid _was_ the only person he wanted to talk to, even wanted to see, right now, because he needed to tell him now, while the words were still fresh in his memory, while he still had the right terms and phrases and everything all lined up.

He needed to tell him how scared he was, trying to follow the ambulance—how much it had hurt to make the choice to follow Prince instead of seeing if he was dead or alive—how hard it was to pretend that he didn't care who he was out with—he needed to tell him _everything_, even the fact that he was stupidly, hopelessly in love with him.

**2:59 AM, November 20**

"You piss me off, you know that?" Morgan mumbled, glancing at Reid. "You really fuckin' do, kid." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "You're lucky that dumb son of a bitch didn't kill you... because I'm pretty sure I would have killed you myself if you died."

He was quiet until the phone in his pocket vibrated against his hip: a text from Prentiss, telling him that they were coming up. The flight had taken much less time than anticipated. He stood, about to walk over to the door, and paused to look back: Reid looked tall and too skinny in his hospital scrubs; a year ago, he would have looked twelve years old, but in that year he had changed, grown into himself, grown into the maturity that the world had thrust upon him. He looked like a man instead of a boy—a young man, but a man nonetheless. And Morgan wondered, not for the first time, if this was right, what he was feeling.

"I love you," he said, so softly that he could barely hear himself. "Goddamnit, Spencer Reid..."

**A/N: Well, that's it, maybe. Everybody go vote on my poll RIGHT NOW, because I desperately need your input! You might get an epilogue, unless the majority says that they should get together in the sequel, or not get together at all. If the majority rules that, this is the last chapter and the end of 'Sympathy for the Devil'. I hope you enjoyed the ride. **


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